


Following Her Heart

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Post-Canon, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: There was something Marta wanted to ask him, about what he'd said that day at Harlan's house.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 100
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Following Her Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badritual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/gifts).



Marta had been thinking about it for a while. Ever since he'd left her there in Harlan's house. The things he'd said, to her – and of her.

_You have a kind heart._

_You're a good person._

_You won, not by playing the game Harlan’s way, but yours._

Of course she couldn't stop thinking about it; he'd been kinder to her than anyone else in that house had ever been, except Harlan. Even knowing from the start that she'd had something to do with Harlan's death. Which actually made it all the worse; for those few hours, a detective famous enough to be called _the Last of the Gentleman Sleuths_ had acted like she was the most fascinating person in the very same home where she'd been called _family_ and yet treated like a footnote.

But that wasn't exactly – well, at least not the _only_ reason – why she wanted to call.

Benoit Blanc had said something else, too: something that had come back to her more and more since the chaos after the will reading had finally begun to settle. The house, the money, the publishing company; it was all really hers now. Her family had moved out of their tiny apartment, expensive lawyers were helping her mother with her Green Card, Ransom was in jail awaiting trial, and Marta would never have to work a day in her life she didn't want to, ever again. There was only so much redecorating she could do in Harlan's mansion, though, without wondering how long it would take for _her_ to feel as entitled as the people who'd used to live there. 

Even Harlan himself; she'd loved the old man as if he was her abuelo, but she hadn't been blind to his faults. After everything that had happened with Ransom, she understood a lot better why Harlan had said there was a lot of him in his grandson, just untempered by experience. But Marta didn't ever want to be tempted to start thinking that way herself. As if only her wishes mattered, and consequences happened to other people.

Marta needed something to keep her busy. And there'd been those letters from the publisher. And, well. The detective _had_ sort of suggested it.

She took a fortifying breath, scrolled back through her recents, and thumbed the incoming entry that said _MAYBE: BENOIT BLANC_ before she could think better of it.

"Marta?" The phone picked up in a very familiar Southern drawl, and she smiled almost despite herself. He _had_ kept her number, after all.

"Benoit Blanc," she replied. "It's good to hear your voice."

"And yours as well." She could almost see the crinkles around the detective's blue eyes as he replied. "Though – and don't take this the wrong way – I do hope you're not callin' to try to turn yourself in for another murder. Last I checked, young Hugh was still alive and well behind bars."

Marta pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh behind her fingers. "No, no. Nothing like that."

"Well, that _is_ a relief," he replied, wryly. "I'd ask if you'd decided yet whether to help the rest of the Thrombeys; but I suspect I already know the answer to that."

"Just Meg," she replied, still smiling. Mostly anonymously; Meg would guess, but she hadn't wanted any of the others finding out and thinking it entitled _them_ to beg for help, too. And she hadn't really wanted to be thanked for it, either. She understood why Meg had taken her family's side over Marta's, but that didn't mean the betrayal hadn't stung, or that she was ready to put it behind them. "I _did_ promise. But I'm not actually calling about that, either. There was something I wanted to ask you, about what you said when you were here."

"Oh?" Curiosity lifted Benoit's voice. "I said quite a few things, as I recall. Some of which were rather pretentious. If you've taken any of it to heart...."

"No," she hastened to reply; then shook her head at herself, ruefully. "I mean, yes; but not like that. I think. When you asked me to help investigate, and called me Watson. Was that – was it just because you'd seen the blood on my shoes?"

There was a thoughtful pause; then he said, "I am a seeker after truth, my dear; I might choose a metaphor for multiple reasons, but never one I did not feel apt. You made an excellent confidante, apart from the minor question of your own involvement, which I already doubted amounted to murder. Why do you ask?"

Marta bit her lip, fingering the latest letter open on the desk in front of her from Walt's successor. "I've been thinking. About Harlan's publishing company."

"Blood Like Wine," he replied. "A considerable asset, even with no further novels to be published. Particularly if you decide to allow adaptations."

She knew she'd have to make up her mind about that, soon. Harlan had never liked the idea of anyone else controlling his characters; the afternoon she'd slipped and mentioned the existence of fanfiction to him had been ... memorable, and she'd nearly thrown up more than once. But he'd given her the rights to his books. And she didn't think her sister would forgive her if she didn't.

"There'll still be one more; he'd just submitted another manuscript. But after that ... it seems like kind of a waste, to own a whole publishing company and never publish anything new."

"In concept, I quite agree," Benoit replied, slowly. "And yet, it takes no great perception to realize there's more to your question. Ms. Cabrera, do you mean to ask me if I've ever considered dramatizing the narrative of any of my investigations?"

Marta's face flushed; even over the phone, even when she knew he couldn't see her face, his easy insight into her motives made her feel both over-exposed and a little flattered. She wasn't used to people like the Thrombeys, and those in their social circle, paying her any more mind than as wallpaper or a prop for their arguments – which was probably why it had taken her so long to see through Ransom. Harlan had been the only one in that house to really see her before: the only one of his family who _hadn't_ been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as he'd put it. Meg had come close, but there'd always been a distance there that Meg's internet-educated ideals and dissatisfaction with her family hadn't quite been enough to cross.

It didn't hurt that Marta hadn't been able to keep her mind off Benoit since the moment they'd met, either: the way he looked in shirt and suspenders with his sleeves rolled up, the fact that he _didn't_ wear a ring on either hand, and the sheer passion in his voice when he'd yelled at the Thrombeys _You have not been good to her!_

"I meant to ask if you'd mind if _I_ did? Just to try it? To really be Watson for one of your cases." He'd already been famous before Ransom had anonymously hired him to investigate his grandfather's death; the news coverage afterward had only burnished his reputation. He was one of the most interesting people Marta had ever listened to, and if his cases were usually as complicated as the one she'd been caught up in, she didn't think she'd be the only one fascinated by how he figured things out.

The pause this time was slightly more intrigued; Marta had been half-expecting him to turn her down flat, and the lift in his voice when he replied set her heart beating faster. "Through the use of a ghostwriter? Or did you mean to accompany me again yourself?"

The question brought her up short; she hadn't even _thought_ about ghostwriters. Honestly, she hadn't actually thought far past the mental image of herself following Benoit with notebook and pen, this time maybe actively helping instead of worrying about footprints in the mud and broken pieces of trellis.

But now she wondered what it might look like from his perspective: inviting herself into his life, because he'd been one of the few solid things around her during a very messy time. As if she was trying to fit him into Harlan's place in her world as employer, mentor and friend ... though she'd never looked at Harlan quite the same way. It was a stark picture, and one she didn't like very much. But no; he wouldn't sound so interested if that was his opinion. Would he?

"I did say Watson, didn't I?" Marta replied, lightly. "Not Arthur Conan Doyle. I know I'm not a writer like Harlan was, but...."

Benoit chuckled, dispelling one source of nerves and raising another entirely with his reply. "I wasn't questioning your ability, my dear. I just didn't think detective fiction was your genre."

"Oh, my god. You know about that too?" She hadn't blushed this much in one conversation in _years_.

"I _did_ do my research," he reminded her. "Though I must admit, knowing now how you react to mistruthin', it does make me rather curious how you manage it." 

Marta couldn't help but laugh at the very idea of Benoit Blanc _reading her fanfiction_. "It's ... different. At least, for me. Telling stories is about telling other kinds of truths. Getting into the characters' perspectives, figuring out what they'd do...."

"Not so very different from being a detective, then," he mused. "Perhaps I spoke truer than I knew, when I said we deserved each other."

"Mr. Blanc...."

"Please," he interrupted. "If we're going to be investigatin' together, I _insist_ you call me Benoit."

She caught her breath. "Then...?"

"Of _course_ , Watson. Though you do know, if you simply wanted to see me again, I'll be in the area again shortly, for obvious reasons."

Ransom's trial, of course. Marta had thought about waiting for that opportunity. As apparently he had, too? But.... 

"We only met because of Ransom. I didn't want to feel like I owed him ... anything else."

"My dear Marta, you don't owe anyone in that family a single thing," he replied, warmly. "That said ... I am so very glad you called."

"Really?" she couldn't help but ask.

"Very much so. Shall I call you back in the mornin' to discuss the details further? I suspect it might be easier to converse about observin' the next case if I've already taken one."

She hardly knew how she got through the rest of the conversation, her cheeks were so sore from smiling; but the first thing she did after they hung up was enter Benoit's phone number into her contacts, no more MAYBE about it.

Following her heart, the way he'd suggested all those months ago.

Marta looked forward to finding out what would happen next.


End file.
